


And Luke Makes Three

by beetle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Post-Inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this inception_kink prompt, "Their son looks like Arthur but sounds like Eames."</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Luke Makes Three

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine by any stretch of my admittedly perverted imagination.  
> Notes: Set post-Inception by twenty-ish years. No M-preg.

  
“And where’re you going at  _this_  hour, dressed like  _that_ , young man?”  
  
Luke pauses with his hand on the knob of the front door. “Er . . . library?”  
  
“Try again.”  
  
Turning to face his dad, Luke puts on his most charming smile. It never seems to work on Arthur, not even when papa’s the one doing it.  
  
In fact, Arthur merely gives him an unreadable once-over then huffs. “That shirt is more holes than shirt, and those jeans are so tight I can read your religion.”  
  
“DAD!” Luke covers the goods with both hands, wincing as his testicles try to ascend into his body cavity.  
  
“Well, it’s the truth.” Arthur crosses his arms and leans against the banister. “And you know what else is the truth? No son of mine is going out at ten o’clock at night, looking like some sort of . . . rent-boy!”  
  
“Really? I look that good?” It slips out before Luke can censor himself and Arthur does  _not_  seem amused.  
  
“Roger!” he calls, turning his head to look back up the stairs. Luke can just about make out a hickey on his dad’s neck and has to fight not to gag. He knows—for a fact, ick—that his parents still hump. Like bunnies. He knows that said humping means that they still love each other, and that even though they’re so old they can still get off on each other. But being presented with tangible proof is absolutely horrifying. “ _Roger Eames_! Get your ass down here and  _take a look at your son_!”  
  
And that, right there, is how Luke knows he’s in trouble. When he aces a math test, he’s his dad’s son. When he gets caught dry-humping with a varsity quarterback in an empty classroom, he’s his papa’s son.  
  
“Oh, what now, darling?” Papa’s voice precedes him down the curving staircase. He, like Arthur, is wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. But unlike Arthur, he’s barefoot. He has a tendency to walk around the house that way, a tendency Luke has inherited.  
  
“Take a look at the boy, Roger, and tell me what’s wrong with this picture,” Arthur says, gesturing at Luke, but not looking at him, as if the very sight of Luke pains him. Roger does so, eyebrows shooting up as he looks Luke over critically.  
  
“Bloody hell, he’s started gelling his hair back again,” Roger moans, only to get an elbow in the ribs from Arthur. “Ouch! What was that for?”  
  
“For not noticing your son looks like a streetwalker-in-training!”  
  
Roger tuts. “Oh, now, darling, don’t be so harsh. He looks to be well out of the training stage.”  
  
Which is good for another elbow from Arthur and a hastily covered laugh from Luke. Arthur glares at them both.  
  
“I hope you think that’s  _really_  funny, because getting grounded? Won’t be nearly so amusing.”  
  
“But I just got done being grounded!” Luke whines, leaning on the door and pouting. Arthur scowls and comes down the last three steps, arms still crossed.  
  
“Are you wearing  _make-up_ , Mister?”  
  
Luke rolls his eyes. “Uh, yeah. But just lipstick and eyeliner, I mean . . . I’m not going to a rave or anything.”  
  
“And where, exactly  _would_  you be going, Lucas?” Roger’s wearing his concerned face. The  _real_ one, not the one he fakes to stay on Arthur’s good side. “Your curfew is eleven—“  
  
“Against my better judgment,” Arthur adds.  
  
“—and you’re leaving at ten? Giving you one hour to do . . . whatever it is you’re planning to do in that charming little outfit.” Roger’s eyebrows quirk up again in unasked question. Luke sighs, but mentally sorts through all the handy lies he’s used in the past, and—  
  
—and it’s obvious from the looks he’s getting from his parents that they know exactly what he’s doing, their bullshit-o-meter having been set off.  
  
So it’s to be the truth, then. The option of last resort. But even as Luke balks at telling his occasionally over-protective parents the truth, he imagines what it’d be like to go  _a whole nother twelve hours_  without kissing Kyle, or feeling those strong arms around him, and resigns himself to it.  
  
“Right, then. So . . . Kyle called me and asked if I wanted to hang out for a bit and I said yes because we haven’t been out since I got grounded that last time and I really miss going out with him and anyway it’s only going to be for a little bit so can I  _please_  go  _please_?”  
  
“Kyle as in  _Kyle Darden_ , that boy you got caught messing around with at school?!” Arthur demands, at the same time Roger  _hmms_  and looks even more concerned. “Absolutely not!”  
  
“But—but—“ Luke sputters angrily, then stomps his booted foot. “You’re just saying no because you think I’m going to have sex with him if I go!”  
  
“Well,  _duh_!” Arthur says, rolling his eyes, and elbowing Roger again. “Damnit, back me up, here, Roger!”  
  
“Actually—“  
  
“And don’t act as if you wouldn’t!” Arthur adds, cutting Roger off before he can say anything. “If you’d had your way, you’d have lost your virginity in an empty classroom on your teacher’s desk!”  
  
“That’s not true!” Though it halfway is. The part about letting Kyle do him in school, anyway. “And for your edutainment, I got my cherry popped a year ago, and it wasn’t in a classroom, and you didn’t know anything about it! So if I wanna have sex, keeping me from going out with Kyle isn’t going to stop me!”  
  
In the shocked, downright mortified silence that follows this outburst, Luke blushes, and crosses his arms over his chest, and rocks back on his heels. “I mean. I know how to be safe and everything. And—I’m not, like,  _easy_ , or anything. I wasn’t going to give Kyle any tonight in the first place.”  
  
Again, this is halfway true. Sucking dick is  _sucking dick_. It’s nothing like  _sex_.  
  
Roger sighs, putting his arm around Arthur, who shoves him away. Roger sighs again, his eyes darting unhappily between his husband and his son.  
  
“Right, then. Brilliant moment to drop a bomb like that on us, Luke. Cheers,” he says sarcastically, and Arthur snorts, his shoulders one tense, angry line. This time, when Roger puts his hands on those shoulders, for a wonder he doesn’t get shrugged away.  
  
“You’re only fifteen, Lucas,” Arthur says finally, his voice pleading and cracking like just saying the words hurt. And that hurts  _Luke_ , who realizes that yet again, he’s disappointed his dad. Granted, this happens fairly often, considering Arthur’s high standards of behavior and Luke’s tendency not to live up to them, but that doesn’t mean the pain of it gets any easier.  
  
“I’m sorry, dad.” Luke’s own voice is cracking like it hasn’t since he was thirteen—he may be dad’s biological child, but he’s somehow inherited Papa’s low timber and accent, something which makes getting boys far easier than it should be. “I didn’t mean to disappoint you. Again.”  
  
Arthur heaves a sigh of his own, the straight line of his shoulders turning into a slump. He shakes his head. “Luke—you could never disappoint me.”  
  
Luke snorts. “Please. Don’t act all like you’re not disappointed your little boy turned into some kinda . . . he-slut.”  
  
Arthur cocks his head solemnly, as if he suddenly understands something that’d been eluding him. “Is . . . is that how you think I feel? Is that what you think you’ve become in my eyes?”  
  
“I—“ Luke looks away. “I dunno. I guess,” he mumbles, picking at the edge of one of the holes in his t-shirt. It really  _is_  pretty scandalous. Even for Luke. “You’ve made it pretty clear that I’m not living up to your . . . high standards.”  
  
Next thing he knows, Arthur’s arms are around him, holding him tight. Startled—Arthur’s not one for hugs and kisses. Not like Roger—all Luke can do is hug back, ignoring the prickling behind his eyes.  
  
“You’ve never once disappointed me, Luke. You never could. I may not agree with all the choices you make, but I love you. And I’m  _proud_  of you,” Arthur says fervently, his voice cracking again, but in a completely different way.  
  
“Oh.” Luke says, only it’s more of a hitch. He doesn’t really know how else to respond to any of this. The hug, the approval . . . any of it. “Okay.”  
  
Then another set of arms are sliding around them both, strong and warm, and papa’s muttering: “Look at us, blubbering like a trio of old queens.”  
  
“Oh, man.” Luke laughs a little, blushing. After a minute he pulls out of his parents arms, unable to look at them. Unable to look anywhere but his expensive, fashionably battered boots. “So, yeah. I need to go for a walk.”  
  
“A walk?” Luke can sense the glance his parents share between them. “Where?”  
  
“ _Nowhere._  Just for a walk, okay?  _God_.” He risks a quick look up, and sees Arthur and Roger share another one of those glances. Concerned, but not worried.  
  
“Alright,” Roger finally says, sliding his arm back around Arthur, who leans against him in a way that means they’ve got each other’s backs on this particular decision: they stand united. “Have fun, and remember this  _is_  a school night, darling.”  
  
“I will,” Luke promises, meeting their gazes in turn.  
  
Roger smiles wistfully, and Arthur . . . looks like he might say something else. But in the end, he doesn’t. Merely lets Roger lead him to the stairs. They go up quietly, without looking back.  
  
And that, it would seem, is that.  
  
Stepping out the front gate, feeling as free as a balloon escaped from a bunch, Luke pauses, contemplating two directions. Right leads to Kyle’s house (or, more accurately, the backseat of Kyle’s car), and left leads . . . to nowhere in particular.  
  
He takes a step to the right, thinking almost ruefully that he could blow Kyle four times in the next hour and still get in under curfew. In fact, if he  _really_  wanted to, he could let Kyle fuck him. Twice, even. Lord knows he’s got plenty ‘nough protection for that. . . .  
  
Suddenly, his Blackberry trills; he’s got an incoming text message. Probably from Kyle, wanting to know why the hell his dick is still unsucked.  
  
But when Luke checks his phone, the incoming message is from Arthur:  
  
 **Be careful. Be safe. Be back by 11. XO, Daddy.**  
  
For a long while, Luke stands there, a smallish, dark-haired, dark-eyed boy in too much make-up and too-tight clothes, staring at his phone and blinking a lot.  
  
“Fucking daddy’s boy,” he mutters to himself, turning left, toward nowhere in particular. But with a smile on his face.


End file.
